Alan's Day
by tiylaya
Summary: Gordon looks back on a special day in his life, and how its meaning has changed.


**Alan's Day**

_Gordon looks back on a special day in his life, and how its meaning has changed._

This is a work of fan fiction, based on the 1960s television series Thunderbirds, created by AP Films. Characters and situations are used without permission, and without any profit to the author.

Warning: This isn't a death-fic as such, but there is an implied major character death in the past. In fact, it could be seen as a loose sequel to my story 'A Necessary End'.

Again, I'd like to thank quiller for looking over this story for me, and for her encouragement. I'd also like to thank everyone who has reviewed one of my stories recently - each review has brightened my day and encouraged me to keep writing. Reviews, comments or criticisms are more than welcome. I value any and all feedback, no matter how brief.

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* * *

Alan wasn't much more than eighteen months old. I was still deep in the terrible twos.

He was very much at the pull it, poke it or eat it stage, exploring his environment any way he could. Sometimes, when I was in the right frame of mind and he was at his most charming, it was kind of cute. We'd have a great time then, playing for hours despite our difference in age and understanding. And the rest of the time? Well, to tell the truth, I could have done without the little pest, demanding attention from our brothers and Grandma, stealing the precious few minutes we got with Dad.

If I'm honest, I'd have to admit that I don't remember much from that far back. The images that do spring to mind are probably as much my nostalgia and imagination speaking as true memories. There's one day though that stands out crystal clear amidst the hazy mist of childish perception. I guess maybe I'm fooling myself, but, now more than ever, I want to believe the details I remember are real. I think they are. There was something in the magic of that day that lingers even now.

I was in a foul temper that morning. Who knows why? I'm not even sure I knew myself at the time. But I've always had this awesome ability to spread my mood around – part of the reason I try to take things in my stride. With great power comes great responsibility, and all that. In any case, I'd already managed to drive Grandma out to the kitchen garden, taking Johnny with her to cool down. Technically that put Dad in charge, but in practice it just meant he left his office door open while Scott made sure the rest of us didn't kill each other. Our big brother was slouching on the sofa, ignoring my frown and Virgil's sulk. His hand rested possessively on one of the TV remotes. The second remote, in accordance with Tracy family tradition, was nowhere to be seen. About once a week, we'd rediscover it and promptly lose the one we'd been using. Even as an inquisitive toddler, I didn't question that cycle. It was just one of those things.

Scott had something on. Maybe an old episode of _MacGyver_, or maybe I'm projecting later memories into the gaps. Given the frequency with which Virge and I were interrupting, clamouring for two different sets of cartoons, he couldn't have been following the plot all that well. I suspect he wasn't trying. This was about power, not programmes.

Which is why he turned on us with a glare and an angry rant when the channel suddenly switched for the second time in under a minute. The first time, Scott had blinked at the control under his hand and assumed that he'd hit a button by accident. The second time, there was no doubt in his mind. Within ten seconds, he had Virgil and me on our feet, patting us both down and then searching the seat cushions for the spare remote control. Virge promptly burst into tears. He might have wanted cartoons, but he was going through a serious hero-worship phase, and having his idol accuse him of lying can't have been fun. It took an exasperated Scott a good few minutes to get him settled, and then another couple to placate me. Hey, I wasn't much more than a baby. Small wonder I kicked off when it felt like Virgil was getting all the attention. In any case, by the time we got back to the show, even Scott hadn't much idea what was happening. He spent more time eying the two of us suspiciously than watching the screen.

A little back from Scott's eye-line, sat on his backside in a playpen he'd almost outgrown, Alan watched the whole thing with wide-eyed fascination.

I was bored. The explosions on the television were pretty neat, but they weren't nearly frequent enough to hold my attention. I found myself watching Alan instead. His expression a mask of rapt concentration, he leaned forward, palms pressed to the ground. Arms extended to hold him in an awkward crouch, he rocked back and pushed himself to his feet. He almost toppled over onto the padded floor of the playpen as he turned around a little too quickly, reaching down for something behind him. Straightening more slowly, he turned back towards us. With a very deliberate, very calculating look, my baby brother pointed the second remote control in the general direction of the television and one pudgy finger stabbed randomly at the keypad.

By the time Scott made it to his feet, Alan was off his, letting the remote control fall and then dropping to sit on the thing.

Virgil's lips were still trembling, and my response to Scott's interrogative look must have looked suitably stunned. He didn't shout at us again, but he did give the sofa another search. I dropped back down when Scott said I could, sitting on my hands because he told me to. I didn't argue with my big brother when he was this irritated. But my eyes kept straying to the playpen.

Alan had worked the remote out a month or so before. Push a button and the picture on the screen way over there changes – pretty neat when you're small and powerless in a big, confusing world. Now though, he wasn't watching the screen. He was watching Scott, his expression alternating between delight and curiosity. I carefully looked away as Alan climbed back to his feet.

Our big brother was standing a foot in front of the television, hands on his hips as he glared at it. Scott's never been one to tolerate defiance, least of all from a hunk of inanimate metal. He'd put his remote down on top of the set so it was in plain sight when the channel switched. Now he spun back to the couch, his eyes scanning Virgil and me for any sign of movement, trying to catch the culprit in the act. His eyes lingered on me. I had put on my most innocent look and, at the grand old age of ten, Scott was already starting to meet it with quite unfair suspicion.

Even so, I was still sitting on my hands, and Scott's loyal lieutenant piped up to say he'd been watching me. Our eldest brother had no choice but to turn back to the television, flipping open the panel on the front of it with a tentative prod. I don't know what he thought he could do behind there, but Scott's never backed down from a challenge in his life. Virgil, one of life's problem solvers, jumped down from the sofa and ran to his side, pointing out the different buttons and talking nineteen to the dozen.

With our brothers distracted, I turned back, fascinated, to the playpen. Alan was looking at me, his chubby hands tucked half under his backside in imitation. He giggled, laughter shaking his entire body. For the first time I could remember, when my baby brother met my eyes, I wasn't seeing a plaything or a pest. I recognised a kindred spirit behind those cornflower-blue irises.

Scott always had sharp ears for any sound from Alan. Goes back to those long nights after we lost Mom, I guess. That giggle was all it took to get his attention. The way the two of us were grinning like maniacs, it would have taken an idiot not to work it out. He looked from Alan to me and back again, his face a picture in that 'Eureka' moment.

A few quick strides and he scooped our chortling baby brother out of the playpen, swinging him onto his hip. Holding Alan tight, he reached down and retrieved the errant remote control. He bounced it in his hand, shaking his head ruefully and muttering something about letting the baby get the better of him. Virge and I exchanged looks, a little wary of our irritated brother, but Alan always knew how to handle Scott. He threw his arms around our big brother's neck, babbling a few nonsense words as he planted a big kiss on his cheek. Scott's expression softened. Laughing, he bent down to blow a soft raspberry against Alan's skin. And then, to his credit, my brother apologised – first to Virgil and then to me - before dropping back onto the sofa, Alan in his lap. He tickled our little brother until the kid was shrieking with laughter and, television long since forgotten, all four of us were caught up in the tickle fight.

- xx -

It was dark that night when I climbed up onto the kitchen counter and took Grandma's calendar down from the wall. I looked from the crayon in my hand to the incomprehensible complexity of the page in frustration, knowing what I needed to do, but not how to do it. I was on the verge of just scribbling across the whole thing when John found me. He listened to what I wanted with a confused frown, then shrugged, took the crayon and calendar from me and carefully shaped the letters beside the day's date before sending me to bed.

I've no idea what possessed Grandma when she copied the important dates from that year's calendar to the next. If she'd ignored my impulsive and cryptic addition, I'd probably have neither noticed nor cared. But she faithfully transcribed the note, replacing John's spidery handwriting with her own bold script. By then I was starting to read, sounding out the letters on anything I saw. So I knew when "Alan's Day" came around, and I remembered what it meant even if the rest of my family were baffled. I insisted on celebrating it that year, and the next. By the time Alan was four the others had given up wondering why I'd awarded my little brother a special day. Alan, youngest of five brothers and grateful for whatever attention he could get, was actually nine years old before he dared jinx it by asking me himself.

I told him it was the day the aliens had handed him to me on our doorstep.

The following year I was the alien, rescued by little Alan before he was even old enough to remember.

By the next, he had a theory of his own – it was the day I'd discovered my evil powers and used them to enslave him.

Through all the years – school, college, my tour with WASP and his world championship, whatever form our celebration took, and however hard it was to organise – I don't think he ever got closer to guessing the truth than that, even if he had our roles reversed. He never knew that Alan's Day celebrated the moment when he stopped being 'the baby' and became a real person in my eyes. My little brother. My partner in crime. My best friend.

- xx -

It's been a decade now since we lost him, and I still come back. I know there's nothing left of him here. I know he isn't waiting for my return. I'd like to think that he's with me wherever I am. Or perhaps that he's someplace better, where all this fades into insignificance.

I come anyway. Not to celebrate his birthday, or even to commemorate the day of his death. Much as I love my family, facing them here… Well, I think Al would understand why I avoid the times they visit en masse. I think my older brothers get it too. They understand why, even after so long, I need this one day each year alone with my memories – to remember the happy times as well as the sad.

One day a year when I can admit to myself how much joy it brought me to have him by my side, and how much it still hurts to realise he's gone.

Alan's Day.

- xx -

**The End**


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